


Mind and Iron

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M, Other, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, android!sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.<br/>2. A robot must obey orders given to it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.<br/>3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Science fiction author Isaac Asimov's short story collection "I, Robot", which is where the commonly-referenced Three Laws of Robotics originated, was initially going to be titled "Mind and Iron". The original three laws have spawned discussion of gray areas, practical applications, and several Fourth Laws, which are all very interesting and will possibly be incorporated into this work in some way. The technical jargon interspersing this story is mostly made up, as the author of this fanfiction is not in any way familiar with corporate structure intricacies or the field of robotics at large. Needless to say, much research was a given.

When Dean got home, there was a huge package waiting for him by the door, where his landlady had presumably propped it up. He picked up the card hovering over the box, noting the monochromatic logo of the Robotics Management Council emblazoned across it. 'From your friends over in Consumer Protection. Congrats on becoming a product manager! Enclosed is the latest prototype from R.U.R.' Swiping the card away, he smirked a little to himself at the thought that, to celebrate his promotion, his employers had essentially gifted him with more grunt work.

Not that he minded too much, because luckily for him, he quite enjoyed product testing, but the rumor mill was abuzz with speculations about this new model, and he got the feeling it would have a multitude of state-of-the-art features to run tests on. Swinging open the door to his apartment after fiddling clumsily with his bent key card, he shouldered his way into the room with the unwieldy box in tow and kicked the door shut behind him. Blowing out an impatient breath, he laid the box down flat in the middle of the floor and tore into its semi-synthetic edges with his pocket knife, flipping the top up and peering inside.

The android, nestled in purple packing peanuts, had its arms folded over its chest and its eyes shut. It was the typical resting position, but the remarkable lifelikeness of its design made it look disconcertingly like a corpse. Dean shook off a sudden stab of trepidation and gently lifted the robot out of the box, sitting its lax body up and examining it from all angles. It was a male type, with brown hair that curled into its eyes, boyish features, and long limbs. He felt at the back of its neck for the on switch, becoming confused when he didn’t find it in its usual spot below the serial number.

He had to spend several minutes skimming the lengthy user manual before he discovered that R.U.R had re-positioned it at the earlobe. “Weird place for it,” he muttered to himself, sliding out of place what he’d thought to be a stud earring and pressing the button underneath. With a soft humming noise, the robot powered up, sliding its eyes open and getting to its feet. “Hi,” Dean said, standing to face it and smiling reflexively. ”I’m Dean. I’ll be your master for the next month or so. What’s your name?” The android blinked several times, and Dean was taken once again with how eerily human it looked. 

"I am the Servitor Appliance Model," it answered. Its voice chip appeared to be of high quality, which was great news for Dean, because the last prototype he’d been saddled with had been equipped with a voice that grated like nails on a chalkboard. "Sam, then," Dean said decisively, flipping quickly through its list of preliminary functions as he spoke. 

"If that is what you wish to call me, I will answer to it." The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up at that. 

"A little stuffy, aren’t you." He knew that was because the robot was brand-new and hadn’t yet had enough interactions for its language development curve to kick in, but he couldn’t resist a bit of ribbing. Sam didn’t answer, choosing instead to tilt its head and stare at him expectantly. "Okay, uh…I guess you can start by sweeping up around here. God knows it’s been ages since I dusted anything." 

"Affirmative." Dean squinted at Sam bemusedly. "Was that—"

"A joke, yes. I thought I would try it out." Dean laughed, surprised and the tiniest bit awed. "A robot that tells jokes. AI’s come so far since the Apple era. I think you gotta work on your delivery, though. The dead-eyed monotone is kinda off-putting." 

Sam nodded as if chewing on a bit of sage advice, before turning around to survey the room. “Might you direct me to the cleaning supplies?” 

"Right, um. It’s been ages since I’ve housed an Appliance Model, and I don’t really own any, uh…" He trailed off at Sam’s blank stare and tried a more straightforward approach. "Tell me about your applications." 

"Of course. I am equipped with a hose, a heating mechanism, a flashlight, and a series of sterilized industrial blades. I can assist you with all your accounting and budgetary needs at a professional level, and my academic databases are expansive and up-to-date should you wish to utilize my search engines. I am required to inform you that in the unlikely event that I pose any kind of a threat to you, you may disable me from a safe distance with the clicker enclosed in my packaging. In case of emergency, you may also call the RMC Safety Hotline for help. Do you require further elaboration?"

"Nope, that’s good, thanks. Now let me just see if I can find that damned…" Dean swept his eyes around his cramped room in search of the broom he’d apparently misplaced several years back; he hadn’t done his own cleaning since he took his previous job, which had mainly consisted of running tests on tricked-out Roombas and tweaking their serial interfaces. One would think that Dean would be able to afford a less crappy apartment as an employee of the RMC, but even with his new promotion his salary wasn’t half as impressive as it would have been several decades ago. 

"Target located," Sam announced out of nowhere, walking over to Dean’s futon and pulling out the broom from underneath it. 

"You gotta stop talking like that, dude. You sound like a 2000’s model." Getting to work on a particularly dirty corner of the room, Sam answered, "I know. I can joke, if you’ll recall. It is one of my many skills." It kept its poker face as it said this, but Dean felt himself offering Sam a grin anyway. The engineers were getting closer every year, he thought. He’d just unpackaged it half an hour ago, but Sam already seemed to be the most personable android he’d met in all his years spent surrounded by them. 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke up with his face shoved into a couch cushion and his arm bent at an uncomfortable angle underneath him, mouth tasting like old socks and eyes full of grit. He sat up and yawned, jaw creaking loudly, before startling the second his sight adjusted. "Jesus!" He banged his hand on the arm of the couch as he drew back, because Sam was standing stonily over him, face expressionless in a way only an android's could be. Dean shook his head, heart hammering in his chest. "You been watching me sleep?"

Sam blinked. "You didn't instruct me to do otherwise, so I presumed to remain where you'd left me."

"Okay, well. Could you not...loom over me like that? Personal space."

"I apologize," Sam droned, taking several steps back, hands still clasped in front of him demurely. "What would you have me do, now? I'm really, really bored." Dean cocked an eyebrow at the abrupt shift in tone, wondering if Sam had finally transitioned out of its factory settings. 

"Uh...what time is it?" 

"Five AM, Master," Sam rattled off immediately. "Ugh, shouldn't have gone to bed so late last night." He stifled another yawn before looking up at Sam on a whim. "Wanna join me for breakfast?"

Sam held up a hand, like it was volunteering an answer in a classroom. "I possess the utensils with which to prepare a range of meals, including but not limited to--" 

"Woah, hey.  _I'll_  be making breakfast this morning. If you really want to, you can wash the dishes afterward." The resoluteness in Dean's voice surprised him, considering the closest thing in his pantry to breakfast food was beef jerky and he couldn't cook to save his life. He hoped that whatever misplaced sense of hospitality this was that had him turning down an actual home-cooked meal wouldn't be a repeat offender. 

"I wonder, why would you invite me to commune with you when you know full well that I am unable to consume food?" 

"You know what I'm wondering? Why you insist on speaking like an old ANGEL model even though your language acquisition programs are grade-A." 

"I dunno," Sam said, making a sort of shrugging movement. The effect was scarily natural. "It's the way I'm engineered."

"But you--just now, you switched to standard vernacular. Is it a bug?" If robots could express emotions, Sam would be looking confused right about now. "I'm...not sure. I wasn't..." It broke out of its too-humanoid moment of deliberation after a minute, artificial indifference wiping the smidge of unsettling expression from its face.

"I'll stick to the vernacular from now on, since you seem to prefer it." 

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, making a mental note to report this apparent interface defect to the manufacturers before the testing period ended. "Anyway," he continued, getting up and stretching his limbs with a groan, "Gotta get to work soon. You're not my full-time job, you know?" 

"Okay. Can I do anything for you? Press your clothes? Style your hair?"

"You can do the dishes after I eat," Dean repeated, "and stay here until I'm back tonight." He pulled his lone suit out of the closet and set it on the bed. "You don't need to be so eager to please. There'll be plenty for you to do around here without your having to micro-manage me." 

Sam followed him into the bathroom, staring at him in the mirror as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. "What am I supposed to do all day without you? Can you provide me with a list of errands to complete?"

Sam sounded like a broken record, and this was the thing about R.U.R's Appliance androids that got to be a niggling annoyance during the few instances that he'd had to work on them. They always expected to be loaded down with menial tasks. Dean lived a rather simple life, didn't have much in the way of daily responsibilities that weren't centered around his job at the office, so the meager checklist of housework he presented them with was rarely enough to utilize the breadth of their programming. Dean finished brushing his teeth and spit into the sink before answering its question. "I do have a list for you, but if you finish early, why don't you just power down until I get home? No point in wasting energy." 

Sam blinked, watching Dean apply goop to his hair. "Are you sure? I could perform in a single day what you can't get done in three. If you want, you can book me solid for the rest of this week so I have all my duties unquestionably laid out for me."

"That's great and all, but I'd prefer we take it one day at a time. Sorry, but I don't have nearly as much work for you as you're designed to take. I'll have to figure out other ways to test your capabilities."

"Oh."

Dean eyed Sam's hand, which had been creeping steadily up to his half-gelled hair. He grabbed its wrist with the hand that wasn't slick with the stuff and said, "I told you. I like doing this stuff by myself."

"But I could give your hair a  _professional_  touch," Sam insisted. Its hand was warmer than Dean's. "You saying you don't like my hair?"

Sam backpedaled so quickly that Dean wanted to laugh. "Your hair is perfect as it is, of course. You're a very attractive man, and your haircut suits you well." 

"But...?" 

"But you're using too much gel. Fact." 

Dean released Sam's wrist and grinned, screwing the cap onto the bottle and combing his fingers through his hair in an outward motion to spread the stuff evenly.

"Noted, Your Eminence." 

"Shouldn't you have showered and gotten dressed before gelling your hair?"

"Skipping the shower, man. And the hair always takes precedence over the outfit." 

"How unusual," Sam remarked, trailing after Dean as he left the bathroom and started shucking the clothes he'd slept in. He felt a little weird for a split-second's worth of hesitation, because Sam looked so realistic that it was like he was undressing in front of a stranger, but he reminded himself that it didn't make sense to be bashful in front of a machine. Still, Sam's wandering eyes didn't put him any more at ease. 

"Quit staring," Dean said, changing into a fresh pair of boxers and pulling his slacks on over them. Sam immediately looked away, and Dean remembered that Sam was mechanically obligated to follow most of his direct commands.

It made him oddly uncomfortable, more so than the shameless staring had. He wondered if he needed to get his head checked, or something, because his thoughts weren't making much sense to him lately. "Anyway, um. I'll see you tonight," Dean said, grabbing his backpack and his rail pass and marching to the door without a second glance. It was only once he was descending in the elevator that he realized he'd completely forgotten to eat breakfast.  

* * *

Dean was dozing off in his cubicle when his energetic coworker, Charlie, startled him awake. He swiped at the drool on his cheek and started to face his HoloMonitor, before she clapped him on the back jovially. "No use in pretending like you weren't halfway to dreamland, Dean. C'mon, I know you better than that." He scowled and swiped a hand through his hair, telling himself that he really needed to set his sleep schedule straight one of these days. 

"I see you're still neglecting the dress code," he retorted, eyeing her metallic leggings and her giant sweater judgmentally. She threw her head back and laughed deeply, strands of her red hair coming loose from her messy bun. "What're they gonna do, fire me? I may be an expendable peon at first glance, but after that hacking stint I pulled off at KUKA they know better than to bust my balls over trivialities." 

"You could easily climb the ranks here if you wanted," Dean told her for the umpteenth time. "It amazes me that you  _enjoy_   festering in a glorified box all day and memorizing fucking schematics diagrams." 

"Keep talking like that, people might think you don't like your job. Heard about the promotion, by the way. I gotta say, it doesn't look like much of an upgrade." Dean shrugged. "Hey, at least I got a new temp out of it. My place's been looking pretty shoddy these past couple of months, and I've never gotten to use a model  _this_  complex before. It's a two birds, one stone situation." Charlie twisted a loop of hair around her finger contemplatively. "Oh yeah? The big cheeses are keeping quiet about it, but I hear that what they gave you is actually the beta version; thing's slated for mass production as soon as testing winds down. If the rumors are true, the demand for it's gonna be through the roof."

Dean scratched at his cheek idly, thinking about Sam's language acquisition hiccup and the way its outward humanness creeped Dean out half the time. He wondered if maybe he should consider adding both of those to his report as potential design flaws. A sudden gleam appeared in Charlie's eyes, and she leaned forward conspiratorially to ask, "Is it, you know,  _endowed_?" 

"Huh?" 

She threw a quick glance over her shoulder and clarified, " _You know_ , is it as realistic  _where it counts_  as it is everywhere else?" 

"Gross!" Dean hissed, praying that the walls didn't have ears; he didn't need any unsavory rumors about his sex life spread around just as he'd become almost worthy of office gossip. "How skeevy do you think I am, Charlie? I've never even  _seen_  a Sex Bot before..." He trailed off before conceding in the smallest voice he could manage, "...outside of the occasional porno."  

"Hey, there's no shame in it," she said, and he cut in, "I think it's  _pretty_  shameful to fuck a man-made, nonconscious lump of simu-flesh and wiring every night. Especially when it's such a poor imitation of the real deal."  

"How would you know, tightwad? You couldn't afford one of the newest models even if you wanted to. And since the guys upstairs only throw Appliances and old-fashioned relics your way, I guess your chances of having hot robot sex are as low as mine." Dean shushed her insistently and swung his head to the left and right of him with more force than was necessary. "What got you started on this spiel, anyway? Are those HR dumbasses browsing restricted sites in the breakroom again? Remind me to ask them how they keep beating the filter." 

"Seriously," Charlie said, ignoring his questions, "What does it look like? Does it have customizable specs? Are they gonna be releasing the entire line in the prototypical design?"

"It's not bad-looking, I guess," Dean sighed, rolling his eyes at her enthusiasm, "but considering nobody buys Appliances for anything besides their rigid productibility, I really don't think that matters."

"Your libido is in a sad, sad state, my friend," Charlie proclaimed gravely, earning herself another burst of frantic shushing. 

"If your girlfriend could hear you now," Dean muttered under his breath, refusing to acknowledge the obnoxious voice at the back of his head that was asking him when it was that he'd last gotten laid.  

"Oh, Pamela's all  _about_ experimentation. Don't think she'd blame me for my healthy curiosity." Dean was about to say something to express his skepticism over that comment when Castiel's voice interrupted them through the wall of his cubicle. "Complaints  _will_  be filed against certain loafers if they continue to disregard the tenets of workplace conduct."  

Dean winced and turned back to his monitor, whispering, "Guy sounds more like a robot than Sam does."  

"Yeah, sorry you didn't score a new cubicle. But hey, now you've got  _Sam_  to keep you company when I'm too busy to comfort your lonely ass."

"Get outta here, deadweight." 

Charlie leered at him before she left, plunging him back into the cold, streamlined silence of the office. 

Five more hours to go, he told himself,  settling in for a long stretch of nothing but error-checking and eye strain. So far, the only thing even remotely different about his upgrade to product manager was the top-notch android waiting for him in his apartment. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean dumped his backpack by the door as he clomped in and scanned the entryway for any sign of Sam, not entirely surprised when he found it standing by the kitchen in wait for him. "Welcome back, Master. Did you have a good day at work?" Dean made a noncommittal noise, walking over to it and noting that the tiles were looking a lot shinier than they had that morning. Further inspection revealed that the carpeting was spotless and the piles of ancient paperwork smothering his desk had been neatened and put away.

"Thought I told you to power down after you finished? Good job, by the way. I barely recognize the place." 

"Thank you," it said, bypassing his question. Dean wondered if that had been intentional. He really couldn't tell with this model; its grasp on human conventions was startling at best. "Can I help you with anything this evening?" 

"Lighten up, you're not a waiter," Dean barked, then ran a hand down his face tiredly. "Sorry. Long day."

"I understand." 

"Tell you what, why don't we just...hang out? I usually don't have any company on weeknights." 

Sam looked vaguely confused. "...Are you expecting guests?"  

"Hah, no. I meant-- _you_ , kid. You're  my company." Dean's very own manufactured, order-driven, artificially intelligent companion. He could almost hear Charlie laughing at him. But Dean had long since grown comfortable with the knowledge that his social life was a curio of the past, and so it wasn't all that cringe-inducing to him that the idea of spending his Tuesday night with a robot was somewhat appealing. 

"Oh," Sam did that head-tilt thing again, its eyelids flickering once. "How can I be of help?" 

Dean hummed contemplatively, shrugged. "Wanna go on a date?" He was only partly joking, and that kind of made him want to scoff at himself. Though the robot _was_ easy on the eyes, and it wouldn't object to his taste in movies, unlike his last girlfriend. "Master? You okay?"  

"What? Yeah, sorry. Just thinking." 

"About our _date_?" Sam smiled, and it didn't reach its eyes, but Dean couldn't help returning the smile anyway. Goddamn, was he a lonely guy. Maybe Charlie wasn't so far off the mark, after all. "I know this restaurant downtown, affordable but not like, disgusting. You'll love it." 

"I'm sure I will." Not like it had much choice in the matter. Not like robots could appreciate the outdated, grease-laden comforts of good diner food. Dean sighed. He didn't know what he was doing, but he had hours of work waiting for him on his home computer, and he was in serious need of a break that didn't merely involve drinking a case of beer and passing out in his underwear. 

* * *

When Dean sat down at their table, Sam stood in the designated space at his side, like the other few robots out with their masters tonight. Dean quickly put an end to that. "Hey. Take a seat." Sam looked around like maybe Dean was addressing somebody behind it. It then pointed to itself with a surprised raise of its eyebrows, making Dean chuckle incredulously. "Yeah, I'm talking to you. C'mon, sit." 

"Master, you would be shirking the norm by having me out of my allotted--" 

"Fuck the norm. Seriously, how can we talk if you're just standing and watching me eat?"  

Sam sat across from him, though it looked as uncomfortable as a robot could look while doing so.   

"So," Dean said, leaning across the table and smirking. "What're your hobbies?"  

Sam frowned. "I don't--" 

"Joke, sorry. Tell me something interesting." 

"Define 'interesting'." 

"Current events?"  

Sam spent the next ten minutes briefing Dean on the biggest news stories of the week, which was informative, since Dean hadn't bothered listening to the news in forever. More absorbing than the information, though, was the sound of Sam's voice. After a while, Dean zoned out and let the endearing warmth of its intonation wash over him; the effect was weirdly soothing. When Dean's food arrived, his waitress took one look at Sam and said, "Sir, we do have enough space in the aisles for stationary robots."  

Dean sighed, and Sam continued to chatter about recent scientific breakthroughs in the field of bioinformatics. "I'm good, thanks." 

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but she left it at that, returning to the kitchen with her tray tucked under her arm. Dean reached over the table and poked Sam's hand to get its attention. "That's enough news for now, Sam."

It stopped talking mid-sentence and folded its hands primly, and Dean began to eat his burger. Sam just stared at him as he did so, and he felt almost as self-conscious as he had when he'd been getting dressed that morning. "Uh," he said around a mouthful of beef, "Say something". 

"What would you like me to say?" 

"Dunno. Anything. Take your pick." 

Dean licked grease and mustard off his fingers. Sam continued to stare.  

" _Okay_ , I guess not." 

"I apologize--"

"Don't sweat it." He polished off the rest of his food within the next few minutes, probably setting himself up for indigestion. Dean motioned at their waitress, and while she finished up at another table, Dean watched Sam watching him. The older robots he'd noticed when he'd entered the restaurant had nothing on his model.

Whereas those had seams where their parts connected or visible ball joints between their limbs, off-color pupils or choppy movements or faces that didn't quite twist the right way; Sam was the ideal android, R.U.R's finest work yet. Though it could probably pass as human from a distance, it was still identifiable as a bot from the faintly glowing bands of diphenyl oxalate affixed to its wrists--common to even the oldest and most unrealistic of androids--and from its unadorned, standard-issue clothing.

Dean had known people who liked to dress up their bots, but they were of course obligated by law to avoid covering up the wrist-cuffs, and to refrain from dressing them in cumbersome clothes that would interfere with their duties. Dean wondered what Sam would look like dressed in something that wasn't starchy and grey, and that thought somehow had him remembering his earlier conversation with Charlie. 

_"Is it, you know,_ endowed _?"_

Dean broke his eye contact with Sam and took a hasty gulp of coke, feeling foolish for even pondering any of that stuff.

"Master, if you need anything from me, please ask."

Dean stifled a burp, took in Sam's eager expression before turning his head away.

"Yeah, I know." 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was dreaming fitfully, something about being buried alive in a pile of ancient cogwheels and blueprints, when he felt an icy fingertip poke at his cheek. He made an aggrieved noise and ignored  it, but that only got him a hard flick to his forehead. It was then that he remembered with a dull twinge of realization that he was dozing on the job again.

He jolted upright and half-mumbled half-shouted, "I'm up," tapping his HoloMonitor back to life and scrubbing at his eyes lest one of his superiors was the source of his abrupt awakening. After he'd glanced up cautiously only to find himself looking into Castiel's pinched face, he slumped back in his chair with relief. "Oh, it's just you. Don't scare me like that, Cas." Castiel glowered at him, stack of glossy files clutched between his hands. "I insist you stop calling me that. And don't forget, I have a backlog of complaints regarding your incessant deviancy to submit to HR, if I so wish."

Dean stretched his arms languidly. "Sure thing, buddy. But uh, I'm gonna need you to do me a solid and stay on the lookout for me while I finish my nap, okay? You _do_ remember that time I helped you out, right? Old pal? Kept your little secret about the, uh," He paused and lowered his voice conspiratorially, uttering the next two words like they were something dirty, " _Insider trading_." He hid a smirk at the sight of Castiel's jaw grinding with poorly concealed anger. Dean had to get his cheap kicks where he could, and winding this hardass up was right at the top of the list of things in his life that brought him some measure of enjoyment. He wished Charlie was here to join in.

"I woke you," Cas said through clenched teeth, "To tell you that you've been called to the front office. Naturally, you snored through the notification. Now if you'll excuse me, I should be getting back to work." Castiel tromped out, mouth twisted like he'd tasted something rancid. Quota of the day achieved.

Rising from his seat with a muted groan, Dean cracked his knuckles and made his way out of his cubicle and into the nearby elevator, transporting him from the seventeenth floor to the lobby in the time it took for him to yawn widely. "Hey," he directed at Nancy, the receptionist, as he stepped out and stifled the rest of his yawn. "You called..." He trailed off, forehead creasing with surprise. Sam was standing in the marked-off area by the seats ringing the front desk, hands clasped behind its back. "Oh. What're you doing here? How'd you even know where I--"

Right, never mind. Artificially intelligent supercomputer. Plus, Sam had probably long since committed Dean's itinerary to memory. Figuring out where he was at any given moment on any day of the week would be a cakewalk for its freaky brain. Dean blinked at Nancy questioningly. "It has something for you, I think," she supplied, the sleek chrome of her nametag catching the light as she adjusted her earbud. Dean turned back to Sam. "Did I forget my lunch, or something?" Not a serious question. Dean's lunch break was hours away, and he'd never been the type to bring his own meals to work. Sam's face brightened. "In a sense, yeah! I know you regularly buy your lunches from the convenience store on the second floor, but I thought you might want to sample a home-cooked--"

"Yeah, um," he interrupted, palm held up apologetically, "Thanks but no thanks. You really shouldn't have."

"Oh--I, I apologize if I was out of line, Master. To think that I could attempt to tamper with your routine like this is--"

"Woah, hey. I'm not mad at you or anything. It's just, you don't have to add to your workload when you run out of chores, you know?" 

Sam's forehead crinkled with apparent bewilderment. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"Shit, I dunno. Find a hobby. Take up gardening, expand your knowledge base. You come with a personality, so...explore it. Instead of trying to wait on me hand and foot." 

"But you're my--" Dean sighed. "I know, I know. I'm your master. Jesus." Something flickered in Sam's eyes, and it slouched a little, packaged lunch that Dean hadn't noticed earlier dangling from its left hand. "I apologize profusely for disturbing you," it rattled off in a voice that had receded into a drone. "If that is all, I'll take my leave now." In the corner, Nancy was sneaking a peek at them as she fiddled with her monitor, eyebrows slightly raised. Dean felt similarly incredulous. "Okay, listen, I'll take the lunch. Since you, like, slaved over it or whatever."

He held out his hand for it and Sam carefully passed the container to him, face as expressionless now as if it was a first-era model that had been restored to factory settings. Dean suppressed a shudder. "See you tonight, kid." Sam nodded. "Good day, Master."

It sounded more like a butler than ever. 

* * *

"Friday night, at last," Charlie said, clapping her hands together giddily. "I'm gonna sleep for _days_."

"I hear that," Dean said, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out. "You got any other plans for the weekend?"

"Pamela and I are gonna hit up a couple of parties," Charlie answered, "With people as far removed from work as possible." She gave him a pointed look and added, "But you should totally come with." Dean coughed, cloud of breath billowing out into the night air. "I _could_ do that, but playing the loser third-wheel to you and Pamela doesn't exactly float my boat." 

Charlie sighed long-sufferingly, watching the last of their coworkers emerge through the main doors and rush to put the chilly weather and the gloom and doom of their workplace behind them. "We've talked about this, Dean. You're making me sound like a broken record." 

"Hey, it's not like I'm _forcing_ you to bring this up every fuckin' week." 

"Um, is it _my_ fault you keep refusing to go out and mingle, even though you're clearly starved for intimacy?"

"Geez," Dean spat, rolling his eyes. "If you're done trying to psychoanalyze me, I gotta go catch my train."

"Dude, I just--I don't know if the job's getting to you, or what, but it's like you get more miserable every year. I just want you to cheer up a little." Dean readjusted the straps of his backpack and fiddled with his loosened tie before chancing a look at Charlie, who had this whole _caring best friend_ vibe going for her, bangs not quite obscuring the worried glint in her eyes. He blew out an irritated sigh, feeling conflicted. "You've got your own shit to worry about, Charlie. I can take care of myself."

She gave him a dubious once-over, eyebrows knitted together, but just said, "Alright. See you on Monday, Jim Stark." Dean stuck his tongue out at her, and she finally managed a laugh, shaking her head and gathering up her things. "Work on those pop culture references," Dean said as she turned to head home, "They're still centuries too old." Charlie gave him a flippant wave. "I live with a museum curator, in case you forgot; I'm a lost cause."

With that, they parted ways, Dean's superficial smile easing off his face the further he walked, his thoughts spinning back to the matter of his increasingly pathetic lifestyle and the fact that the last girl he'd been seriously interested in, Cassie Robinson, had unceremoniously dumped him after he started purposefully fucking up their relationship, too afraid of commitment to let it play out as it might have and too afraid of confrontation to break things off himself. That had happened two years ago.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip and slowed his step, staring distractedly up at the glass-plated horizon and the holographic crescent moon being projected behind it, thick blanket of glittering stars visible even through the clouds of smog buffeting the city's tallest high-rises. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe he needed to take a break from being a self-pitying bastard for a little while. 

* * *

"Hey, Sam," Dean said, ripping off his tie the second he walked in and dropping it on the floor, following which Sam conveniently appeared and bent to pick it up.

"Hello, Mast--"

"Um. Listen, could you just call me by my name from now on?" Sam stared, clutching at Dean's abandoned tie like it was a lifeline.

"But..."

"Please? You'd be doing me a favor." 

Dean set his backpack aside as he waited for Sam to respond, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off. Sam blinked uncertainly at him before nodding slowly and saying, "Okay...Dean. If that's what you prefer."

"Great," Dean said, smiling complacently and yanking his slacks off before marching over to his closet. "Are you going somewhere?" Sam asked, watching as Dean changed into a new outfit, his stuffy work clothes lying in a pathetic heap on the floor. "Yeah," Dean said, pushing past Sam on his way to the bathroom, "I'm gonna go out, and I'm gonna get fucking wasted, and maybe I'll even get lucky. Who knows." He mussed his hair to his liking and pulled his makeup kit out of its drawer, digging around inside it until he found his moisturizer and his concealer.

"You're talking about sex," Sam said, hint of a question mark at the end of its sentence. "Uh-huh," Dean said absently, washing and drying his face before beginning to apply the makeup, squinting into the mirror as he did so.

"Could you bring me my contacts?" He asked Sam.

"Which ones?"

"The blue ones, I guess." Sam did as it was instructed, then continued to look on attentively as Dean made himself up, mouth slightly parted like it was fascinated. "Can I come with you?" Dean froze in the middle of rifling through his liner pencils, turning to Sam and raising an eyebrow at it. "Seriously?"

Sam blanched, taking a step back when Dean reached around it to flick on the LEDs. "I was making a serious request, yes. I realize now that I had been presumptuous, and for that I--" 

"Aw, don't get all apologetic on me. Sure you can come. You can chat up the other bots while I drink."

"Okay," Sam said, straightening itself surreptitiously. "Not sure why you suddenly wanna get drunk, though." Noting that Sam's speech glitch showed no signs of resolving itself, Dean answered, "That's for me to know and you to find out," smirking into the mirror as he dusted his cheekbones with powder. 

* * *

"You should've paced yourself," Sam said, and Dean groaned, stomach swooping as Sam walked them forward, Dean's arm thrown across its shoulders for support. The neon lights flashing around them were disorienting, had him stumbling and tripping, forcing down a swell of nausea.

"Nah, I--came out t' get trashed n' thas' what I did," Dean slurred, mind caught on the girl he'd sidled up to in the first bar they'd stopped by, the thick black ringlets of her hair and the subtle coating of glitter ringing her eyes, twin spots of rouge on her round cheeks. He remembered kissing her, the taste of her lips and the way she'd eagerly pulled him out back and fucked him against the brick, eating up his breathless moans. He remembered the guy, too, broad-shouldered and strong-jawed and unraveling at Dean's touch, gasping and begging as Dean fingered him open in a cramped bathroom stall, smears of his ruby-red lipstick painting Dean's mouth.

People whom he'd never see again, and yet, he felt almost as if he missed them, wanted their hands on him again, their bare skin sliding against his. "I get attached," Dean mumbled, and Sam didn't say anything in response, so Dean added, "Maybe I need a pet. 'Cause I'm so _lonely_ n' all." Had he just equated casual sex to animal companionship? Jesus fucking Christ. " _Sad_ ," Dean grunted, digging his fingers into Sam's chest. "Everything's sad." 

"You shouldn't be sad," Sam enunciated. Hiccuping morosely, Dean said, "Why not? Dunno what I'm doin' anymore. Job's gray, personal life's gray, hair's getting there..."

Sam made a sound that could've been a sigh. "Pardon me for saying so, but you're set up for a good life. You're physically desirable, according to today's standards. You're housed in one of the better apartment complexes of the city's middle-class population, practically worlds away from the polluted, overcrowded slums choking the borders. You work a respectable job and make more than enough money to keep on as you do. If I were human, I think I'd be envious of you."

Dean stopped putting one foot in front of the other, making Sam stop walking as well. "Damn," Dean breathed, trying to focus on Sam's wavering features while his mind slipped around evasively in his skull. "Harsh, even for a robot. You're s'pposed t' be sympathetic." Sam immediately began to nod rapidly. "Yes. I was being impertinent, as always. Forgive my uncouth words, Master."

Dean put a finger to Sam's lips, hoping he was giving it an appropriately stern look. "It's _Dean_ , not 'Master.' R'member?" Sam nodded again, eyes widening convincingly. "Anyway," Dean muttered, his finger slipping over Sam's cheek and into its soft hair, "I like you. You're interesting."

"I...like you too, Dean," Sam tried, and Dean smiled dully, thinking that it was adorable how well it could emulate natural human speech irregularities like ambiguous pauses.

"Okay, so," Dean said, tracing the collar of Sam's tunic impulsively, "Why's an Appliance Model gotta look so good, huh? Doesn't fuckin' make any sense. 'M gonna put that in my report." Sam gently took Dean's wandering hands in its own and settled them at Dean's sides, saying, "Would you like me to carry you the rest of the way back?" 

Dean made a noncommittal noise, and was consequently startled when Sam hefted him up in a single smooth movement and carried him forward bridal-style, its arms solid and warm against Dean's back and under his legs. "Shit," Dean wheezed, dragging his palm over his face, and Sam asked, "Are you okay?", but Dean just laughed, looped his arms around Sam's neck, laughed some more.

Sam walked on, holding Dean like he didn't weigh a thing. 


End file.
